


The Perfect Gift

by Calais_Reno



Series: Just Johnlock [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Birthday Presents, Don't copy to another site, Eye Sex, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Oblivious John Watson, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:07:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27325537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: John needs to think of a present for Sherlock's birthday.First, he needs to figure out what kind of relationship they're in, which is not easy when you're John Watson.Next, he needs a murder. Preferably a series of murders, seemingly unsolvable.Sherlock would like that.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Just Johnlock [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856749
Comments: 37
Kudos: 167
Collections: Happy Birthday Sherlock Holmes - 6/1/2021, Happy_Birthday_2020





	The Perfect Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PatPrecieux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatPrecieux/gifts).



“What are you getting Sherlock for his birthday?” Molly is giving him an odd look. It might mean, _I know you forgot about his birthday and I’m reminding you because I don’t want him to be disappointed._ That seems about right.

“Birthday?” He hadn’t forgotten; the truth is that he hadn’t even known. Birthdays are not off limits, as topics go; it’s just something they haven’t discussed. Sherlock has most likely deduced when John’s birthday is simply from the way he squeezes his teabag or the spot he missed when he was shaving. But at least he’s had the good sense not to mention it.

“It’s next Thursday,” Molly says. “So, what are you planning?”

 _Nothing_ is on the tip of his tongue, but he senses that this is the wrong answer, so he reconsiders.

Men don’t fuss about birthdays.

He and Sherlock have never done presents. They’ve been living together for nearly a year, and though they took Mrs Hudson out to lunch on her birthday and got her a nice cardigan for Christmas, they managed to get through Christmas without any _gifting_ to one another.

But he has learned (the hard way) that for many people, birthdays are red-letter days. Something like a small coronation, with cake, and candles,balloons and presents and banners. Sometimes even paper crowns.

So John carefully parses Molly’s question before answering. He might reply, _should I be getting him something?_ But the answer to that is already implied in the question.

He might say, _oh, me and Sherlock, we don’t really do birthdays._ And she will continue frowning because Sherlock is her friend, and if John values him, he will not question the necessity of a birthday present.

“What have you got for him?” he asks.

She folds her arms and looks at him grimly. “Nothing.”

It’s true that Sherlock deserves nothing from her. Not even two weeks ago, she brought presents to the little holiday drinkies thing that they had at Baker Street, even though nobody else had done so. He remembers the painful moment when Sherlock was deducing Molly’s new boyfriend by the bow on one of her packages, and suddenly realised that it was meant for him. It’s obvious to everyone that Molly has an enduring crush on Sherlock.

That being true, why is she concerned about what John is giving him?

After what seems like a long pause, Molly still eyeing him with barely-suppressed annoyance, he says, “I don’t know what to get him. Do you have any ideas?”

She rolls her eyes. _Rolls her eyes!_

John is still Sherlock’s best friend, in spite of all the things they don’t talk about because they are British men, and he knows Sherlock better than anyone (except maybe Mycroft, who knows far too much about everyone). For Molly to roll her eyes at him, he must have missed something important, something he should have known.

She is about to shame him. “How can you be such an idiot?”

He’s used to being called an idiot. If Sherlock stopped calling him an idiot, he would think they’d had a falling out. It’s almost a term of endearment coming from him.

From Molly, it is judgement.

“Fine,” he says gamely. “I’m an idiot. Enlighten me, please.”

Instead of enlightening him, she huffs and turns back to her computer screen. “No. I’m sure you know best, John.” The peculiar emphasis she puts on _John_ tells him that he has indeed missed something big. _Huge_ , in fact.

“Molly, please. I don’t know what I ought to get him. Maybe I’ll take him to Angelo’s and make him eat tiramisu. I know he’d like that.”

She is silent for a moment. “What did you give Jeanette for Christmas?”

Again, there is something odd in her intonation.

“Erm,” he says. “We’d only been out a couple of times.”

“But you got her something,” Molly says pointedly.

“Yeah, because I knew she expected it. Okay, she’s a teacher, so I got her a teacher mug. It was full of jelly beans.” He cringes to think of her reaction now. Sherlock might have been the final straw in that relationship, but a mug full of jelly beans doesn’t exactly say _commitment._ “We broke up.”

“I wonder why,” she says drily.

Given John’s poor gift-giving skills, finding a present for Sherlock is a challenge. There isn’t much he wants. He orders his shirts and suits from the same tailor he’s used for years. He doesn’t wear jewellery. He buys his silk socks and poncy shampoo online. His interests are hard to predict, and he is not obvious when he wants something. John’s own preferences for shirts, suits, socks, and shampoo are pedestrian, and he is in no way competent to pick out something that Sherlock would like. He might give him a present, and Sherlock, not caring about gift-receiving etiquette, will not make any pretence of liking it.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Molly says, her tone conveying that she’s sure it will be disappointing, but the conversation is over.

Ideally, gifts show that you’ve thought about a person, anticipating a need or understanding an interest. John doesn’t know what Sherlock would want. He understands his interests: serial killers, locked-room murders, and seemingly unsolvable crimes. Sherlock tolerates John’s interest in spy movies and takeaway, though not his preferences for how frequently movies or eating should take place.

At home that evening, he makes a point of watching Sherlock, who is looking at something on John’s laptop. John himself is pretending to read a book, trying not to look like he’s watching Sherlock, who will probably notice because he’s the most observant man John has ever met.

Sherlock owns a laptop, and John often wonders why he doesn’t use it, preferring John’s most of the time. Maybe there’s something about John’s that is better or easier than Sherlock’s. Maybe he doesn’t have space in his Mind Palace to remember where he put his own laptop.

Would a laptop be a good gift? Probably not. Whatever Sherlock feels about his own laptop, if John were to give him a new one (which he can’t actually afford), the message would be, _keep your hands off my computer._ That isn’t what a birthday present should say. He really doesn’t mind Sherlock using his. That laptop is the one thing that makes John almost indispensable. It’s sad to think that Sherlock tolerates him only for his laptop, but it’s better than being completely useless.

Sherlock is smiling, that slight smile that brightens his eyes and doesn’t squinch his face into smile lines. It means that he is interested in something he’s found.

John used to check the browsing history on his laptop, just to make sure that Sherlock wasn’t trolling the Dark Web or buying uranium online. Most of the sites he visits are for cases, sometimes checking the social media of suspects, obscure aspects of law, or information from sources he doesn’t bother to keep in his Mind Palace. He doesn’t look at pornography or dating sites, from what John can see. Maybe that’s what he uses his own computer for.

They’ve known each other almost a year now, and John has no idea whether he even thinks about other people in a romantic way. He guesses not. _Married to his work._

Sherlock is still looking at the screen with that half-smile of fascination.

“What’re you reading?” John asks.

The response is a blink, and a look of surprise, not at the question, but at the fact that John is actually there, asking him something.

“John, do you know that only seven percent of serial killers use poison?”

“Really.”

“Ninety percent kill all their victims within a ten mile radius.”

“Fascinating.”

“And the average career of a serial killer is eight years.”

“Ah. The poisoning case?”

“Indeed. The Penny Poisoner has struck seventeen times in nine years, always using the same modus operandi. Arsenic; body found near a river with a penny on its tongue. Fare for the ferryman, apparently.” Sherlock has been obsessed since the latest victim was found two months ago, trying to predict when the poisoner will strike again. A new victim might be a nice birthday present, but John isn’t going to hope for that.

Sherlock returns to his screen, and John returns to pretending to read his novel. After reading the same page three times, he decides to make tea.

“Fancy a cuppa?”

Sherlock doesn’t look up. “Yes, please.”

He fills the kettle and sets it to boil. As he takes down the mugs, he thinks about his ineptitude at gift-giving.He envies the latitude women have in choosing presents. They never worry about giving a girlfriend something too intimate or too impersonal. At least that’s how it’s always seemed to him. As recipients, women treat every gift as if it’s the best thing they’ve ever received, with squeals and hugs.

He and Sherlock are flatmates. Friends, probably. He thinks about other friends he’s had, trying to imagine what he might give them for a birthday. Maybe tickets to a match. More likely, he’d just take them out for a pint.

Sherlock doesn’t like sporting events, and he doesn’t like beer. John has never had a friend like Sherlock, so any ideas he might have about gifts suitable for friends would not apply. But he has a direction now. He’ll talk to Lestrade. Greg, being a man, would have better ideas than Molly, who thinks he’s an idiot.

He texts Greg, asks him when it would be convenient to meet. As it happens, the DI isn’t busy and agrees to meet him after work at the pub they usually frequent.

After several minutes of catching up with each other, commiserating about how awful Lestrade’s holidays were this year, what with his cheating wife, John finally says what’s on his mind. “Sherlock’s birthday’s Thursday. I don’t know what to get him. Do you have any ideas?”

“Hm. That’s a tough one. It’s hard to say what he likes, other than homicide.”

“Maybe you could do something about that,” John says. “Wednesday night murder, chasing clues on his birthday. I know he’d like that.”

Greg laughs. “Hey, I can’t produce dead bodies on demand. Maybe you could take him to a concert. Something classical.”

“I checked. You have to have tickets weeks in advance. Even Mycroft couldn’t help.”

“A nice dinner?”

“We eat at Angelo’s so often, it’s not really special. And Sherlock isn’t much of an eater. Taking him out to eat feels too much like coercion.”

“How about a romantic getaway? I know it’s winter, but there are plenty of nice places, posh or rustic, and you could probably get a reservation—“

John gapes at him. “Romantic getaway?”

Lestrade shrugs. “If that’s not your thing—“

“Romantic?” John gropes for words. “You think we’re… we’re… you know…”

“Boyfriends?” Lestrade suggests. “Sure, everybody thinks so. You mean, you’re not?”

“No!”

“Hey, don’t blame me! Plenty of evidence, you know.”

“What evidence?”

Lestrade rolls his eyes. John is beginning to feel like the most oblivious man that ever lived. Since he’s living with the most observant man, this could be a problem.

“He tolerates you, John.”

“Tolerance isn’t love,” John counters.

“It might be. Sherlock doesn’t tolerate _anyone._ You’re special.”

“But he’s not… he doesn’t… _do_ that. Married to his work, he said. No girlfriends, no boyfriends.”

Lestrade shakes his head. “You haven’t known him as long as I have. When I met him, he had a boyfriend. Or had had. A right bastard, got him hooked on cocaine. Rough times for him, and once he started solving cases for me, I think he just walled off that part of himself. The fact that he’s let you in, that he doesn’t treat you with contempt, means something.”

“But I’m not gay!”

“You sure, mate? How’s that straight thing working out for you? How many girlfriends have you had in the year I’ve known you?” He begins ticking off on his fingers. “The one with the spots, the one with the nose—“

“All right, I’ll admit I haven’t had much luck, romantically. That doesn’t mean I’m gay.”

Lestrade shrugs. “If you say so.” He gets up and goes to the bar, comes back with two more pints.

As he watches Lestrade returning to their table, he acknowledges that Lestrade isn’t the first person to make that observation. Maybe he needs to clarify why this keeps happening.

As soon as Lestrade slides into his seat, he says. “You think I’m in love with Sherlock. Why?”

“It’s the eye sex, mostly.”

“Eye sex?”

“Yeah, it’s intense. Smouldering. Everybody notices. Seriously, you never thought about him that way?”

This is a very hard question to answer. Don’t all men fantasise about their flatmates? It’s a bit horrifying that he’s never thought this through.

He drinks his beer in silence. Finally, he sighs. “This doesn’t help with my immediate problem. What do I get him?”

Lestrade shakes his head. “If the romantic getaway is off the table, I don’t know what to suggest.”

They finish their pints and call it an evening.

It’s Wednesday, and John is desperate for an idea. Sherlock has been at Barts all day, in the lab, looking at some evidence in the poisoning case. John thinks about stopping over later, to see if Molly has any ideas, but decides that’s not a good idea. Instead he calls Mike Stamford.

“How about lunch?”

Mike, always a fan of food, agrees to meet him at a pub near the hospital.

“I haven’t see you in a while, John. How’s it going?”

“It’s fine.”

“And Sherlock?”

“Yeah, he’s fine, too.”

Mike smiles. “I knew you two would hit it off.”

“Did you?”

“I did.”

“When you say _hit it off,_ do you mean as friends, or romantically?”

Mike doesn’t reply at once. He studies John silently, still smiling.

“Do you think I’m gay, Mike?”

“I don’t speculate about people’s inclinations,” Mike replies. “I just saw two people, complementary in some important ways, and thought you belonged together. I’m pleased it’s worked out.”

“This is important,” John says. “It’s his birthday tomorrow, and everyone thinks we’re a couple, and I don’t know what to get him.”

“Are you a couple?”

“No. I don’t know. We haven’t. I mean, we don’t. I have no idea what we are, no idea what kind of gift would be appropriate for that sort of relationship.”

“I suppose it depends on what you consider him to be. What your relationship is. What you want it to be.”

John nods. “I suppose it does.”

When Sherlock comes home, John has ordered takeaway. He has no idea what Sherlock’s plans are. He might don a disguise and head out without a word to John about where he’s going, or he might flop onto the sofa and go into his Mind Palace for hours.

Over eggrolls and Pad Thai, they are both quiet. John is thinking. Evenings like this are normal for them. Takeaway, John reading or watching a movie, Sherlock absorbed in research. It feels domestic, comfortable. When he broke up with Jeanette, John was surprised at how relieved he felt not to be obligated to spend evenings with her, pretending to be a good boyfriend. This is how love should be, really. Not anything earth-shaking, but just two people who fit together, who don’t need to say anything to know that the other person feels the same.

_Maybe I do love him. I just never saw it before._

Feeling his gaze, perhaps, Sherlock looks up at him. “I can hear you thinking,” he says. But he smiles when he says it, and doesn’t ask what John is thinking about.

“Anything on for tomorrow?”John asks.

“Nothing yet.” Sherlock eyes him with some curiosity.

He smiles. “Good.” And before Sherlock can ask, he adds, “Shall I make some tea?”

The following day Sherlock ought to be bored, but he’s clearly not. He’s doing more research for the poisoner case, which has run aground, using John’s laptop once again. John has made all his arrangements for the evening, but goes out for a walk in the afternoon just to get out from under Sherlock’s scrutiny.

He returns at five, goes up to his room and puts on his best suit, carefully straightening the new tie he bought to replace the ratty one that Sherlock made fun of last time he wore it. He combs his hair, splashes on some cologne, and returns to the sitting room, where Sherlock is sprawled on the sofa in his dressing gown, looking thoughtful.

When he sees John, he sits up, frowning a bit. “Date?”

“Yes, a date. You have forty-five minutes to get showered and dressed.”

Sherlock stares. “You mean…?”

“I have a date, with you. _We_ have a date, with each other.”

A long silence, while Sherlock studies his flatmate as if he’d just discovered he’s been burying bodies in the basement. Delightful, macabre, and totally unexpected.

“You mean, a _date_. Where two people who like each other go out and have fun.”

“Exactly.” He smiles. “Do keep up, Sherlock.”

With a puzzled smile, Sherlock rises from the sofa. John hears the shower, the hair dryer, the drawers opening and closing in his bedroom. In forty-two minutes, Sherlock emerges, looking like he stepped out of a GQ spread.

John hands him the bouquet of red roses that arrived while he was in the shower. “These are for you.”

Sherlock’s face goes through twenty-nine micro-expressions, beginning with shock and ending with a question mark.

John puts the roses in a vase and adds water. Turning, he smiles at Sherlock. “You look beautiful.”

Sherlock blushes. “So do you.”

John gives him his arm. “Our cab is waiting.”

Once they’re in the cab, Sherlock asks, “Where are we going?”

John gives him a sidelong smile. “Just a little place I know. The owner is a friend. We might have walked, but I thought this would be nicer.”

They pull up in front of Angelo’s. He’s waiting for them just inside the door, ready to escort them to their table. The wine has been decanted, and as soon as they’re seated, he pours two glasses. Smiling, he winks at John and disappears.

“I hope you don’t mind,” John says, pulling Sherlock’s chair out for him. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering ahead for us. When I told him we’d be coming, Angelo wanted to make something special for you.”

“I don’t mind.” Sherlock’s voice sounds odd, strangled, like he’s trying not to cry. He looks across the table as John takes his own seat. “Why are we here, John?”

“To celebrate your birthday,” he says. “And to re-do a conversation I’ve thought about for a long time.”

The arrival of the antipasto gives Sherlock a chance to dab his eyes.

John waits. They sample the cheeses and olives that Angelo has selected for them and sip the wine. When Sherlock seems a bit more relaxed, John continues. 

“The first time we were here together, sitting at this very table, I asked you if you had a boyfriend. I told you it was fine. What I should have said was, _that’s not fine_.”

Sherlock gazes steadfastly at his hands. “Why would that not be fine?”

“I should have said, _it could be fine, if that boyfriend were me_. But I didn’t say that, and you said you were married to your work.”

“John.” Sherlock sets down his glass. “I only said that because—“

“It doesn’t matter, Sherlock. This is why we’re here tonight. We need a re-do. For a year now we’ve been flatmates. We’re friends too, but now I’m asking you to consider whether we might be more.”

Before Sherlock can reply, his phone buzzes. His eyes widen when he looks at the message. “Lestrade’s located him— the Penny Poisoner! He wants us there to help with the evidence once they’ve arrested him. We need to leave now—“ He looks up from his phone, suddenly aware that he’s interrupting something important. “John, please. We’ve been working on this for weeks. I have to go.”

“ _We_ have to go,” John replies. “You don’t think I’d let you go by yourself, do you?” He signals Angelo, explains what’s happened, and apologises.

“No worries,” Angelo says. “I will save it for you.”

The arrest has taken place by the time they arrive, and they follow Lestrade into the house to look for evidence of the prior homicides they suspect he’s committed. It’s an epic solution for a case that has stretched over a decade, and Sherlock has finally broken it. Elegant in his suit, he paces about the basement of the house, pointing out where more evidence might be hidden.

“Seventeen victims,” he says to John, his eyes bright, “The last one just two months ago. I noticed the similarities…”

John and Lestrade look on, smiling, as he explains all the little clues that eventually led them to this house. Once the forensics team has their instructions from Lestrade, the three of them climb up the stairs. Journalists are already waiting outside the door, and snap pictures when they step out.

Lestrade speaks to the gathered crowd, reminds them that the investigation is still underway, and he can’t comment until all the evidence has been collected and examined. They ask, nonetheless.

Sherlock and John stand back in the shadow of the building, listening. In the darkness, their hands find one another.

“Did you know,” Sherlock says, “that the word _Gift_ means _poison_ in German?”

John smiles. “Then this evening has been the perfect gift, hasn’t it?”

Sherlock squeezes his hand. “Sorry about dinner.”

“We’ll eat later, after all this is over,” says John. He pulls Sherlock down into a kiss. Awkward at first, they soon figure out where all their arms go and how to bring their mouths together at just the right angle.

A camera flashes and they break the kiss, looking at one another in astonishment, then blinking into the light.

Voices shout from the darkness. “Mr Holmes! Dr Watson! Do you have any comment?”

John grins. “Happy Birthday, Sherlock.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, Pat!


End file.
